


A Dampening of Heart

by avioleta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Infidelity, M/M, Mystery, Snarry-A-Thon17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:44:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioleta/pseuds/avioleta
Summary: People are mysteriously dying at St. Mungo’s. When Harry Potter solicits Snape’s help in solving the case, they both realise that things are not always what they seem.





	A Dampening of Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt selected from an earlier fest: “Severus is in a relationship (perhaps with Draco or another Potions person), but when he and Harry are thrown together on a DMLE case, Severus begins to realize that perhaps he could have more.”

Severus puts the kettle on and rummages through the cupboard for the box of Earl Grey. Draco has never understood his preference for tea bags but, then again, the man considers anything short of a proper cuppa made from loose leaves positively uncouth. Growing up, Severus’s mother always had tea bags—in deference to Tobias no doubt—but old habits are hard to break and Earl Grey will forever remind Severus of his mum.

The kettle whistles and he pours the water into his teacup. It’s beautiful—delicate bone china covered in sweeps of pink and gold. Draco acquired the set from the Manor. It had belonged to Abraxas’s late wife, and Narcissa was happy to part with anything connected to the Malfoys. Lucius’s imprisonment hit her hard, though admittedly not any harder than the months she'd been forced to play hostess to the Dark Lord in her own home.

Severus sits down with his tea and toast and reaches for the paper, scanning the day’s headlines. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns as Draco presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Good morning.” The man’s white Mediwizard robes are open over a faded Weird Sisters t-shirt, the letters cracked and peeling.

“Have you seen this?” Severus asks, pointing to the lead story. _Six Dead at St. Mungo’s. Foul Play Suspected._

Draco’s eyes narrow. “Yes, of course. The Aurors have been about for days.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

“Didn’t think to, I guess. Not my floor, not my charges, thankfully.” He snags a piece of toast off Severus’s plate. “But it’s horrible. Six patients with non-critical maladies all dead within minutes of each other.”

“Cause of death?” Severus asks, scanning the article. _The Prophet’s_ reporting has always been dismal at best; there is no mention of details.

“Cardiac arrest,” Draco says through a mouthful of toast. “Though, underlying cause is still unclear.”

“And you agree with the allegations of foul play?”

“Absolutely.”

***

The Floo buzzes half an hour later. Severus is still at the breakfast table, the now empty cup of tea at his elbow as he peruses the “Letters to the Editor” section of the paper. He stands and makes his way to the sitting room as the Floo sounds once more.

Severus groans, kneeling down on the worn Aubusson rug covering the reclaimed wood floor. The Kensington townhouse is Draco’s. It had been Draco and Astoria’s, purchased by Narcissa on occasion of their wedding. After the divorce, Astoria insisted Draco keep it— _‘to create consistency for Scorpius when he visits._ ’ Besides, Astoria was moving back to France to be close to her family. Draco didn’t object.

He has Scorpius one weekend a month and every other holiday. 

Severus waves his wand and Harry Potter, of all people, appears in the flames. “Mr. Potter, what a…delightful surprise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Potter says, “good to see you too, Professor. Now, can you let me through?”

Severus nods and mutters the incantation. Potter practically tumbles out of the fireplace.

He stands, brushing ash off his shoulder. Inauspicious entry aside, he’s dressed immaculately. His grey Auror robes are open over a pressed white shirt and Windsor-knotted blue tie. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Severus asks dryly.

“I need your help,” Potter says.

Severus frowns. That’s not what he expected. It’s been months since he’s seen the man and, even then, it was only in passing. He can’t imagine what help Potter thinks he can provide.

Potter must see the confusion on his face because he elaborates: “You’ve heard about the recent murders at St. Mungo’s, right?”

“Yes. It was in _The Prophet_ and Draco mentioned it. 

“Well, we could use your expertise.” Potter runs a hand through his hair. He’s wearing it longer now and it curls around his fingers. “Could we sit down for a minute? I’ve been on my feet all morning and could really go for a cuppa.”

Severus nods and turns towards the hall. He’s too curious about what Potter wants to comment on his demands for hospitality. In the kitchen, he fills the kettle and sets it to boil before taking two clean teacups from the cupboard and the box of Earl Grey from where he left it on the counter.

Potter is sitting at the table, looking around with interest. “It’s nice in here,” he says after a moment.

Severus grunts in response, taking the kettle and pouring hot water into Potter’s cup first and then his own. 

“Draco’s tastes have changed a bit, I guess. I half expected a house full of dark artefacts and Malfoy family portraits.”

“Yes,” Severus says, hiding a smile behind his cup, “because what I really need is Septimus and Abraxas providing commentary on my daily life.”

Potter makes a face. “Touché.”

“Besides,” Severus continues, “I believe Astoria did most of the decorating.”

“Oh, right. So, I take it there are no peacocks?” Potter says, eyeing the door leading to the back patio. 

“No.”

“Good.” Potter nods his head in approval. “Nasty buggers, those things.”

Severus forces himself not to laugh, though he wholeheartedly agrees with Potter’s estimation of Lucius’s prized pets. Potter takes a long sip of his tea. When he doesn’t say anything else, Severus prompts: “Not that I don’t find this assessment of my lodgings interesting, but I was under the impression that you called for a reason?”

“Yeah…yes, of course.” He shakes his head as though focussing his thoughts. “So six people are dead and we’re pretty sure they were poisoned, but we can’t figure out how. And, until we do, I haven’t a chance of catching whoever’s responsible.”

“Do you know what type of poison was utilised?” 

Potter looks down. “Not exactly.”

This time Severus does laugh, a sharp bark of sound. “Do you not employ potions experts at that Ministry of yours?”

“We do, but since MacNally retired, well, you remember Peregrine Jones and Simon Whitmore? They came through Hogwarts a few years after me?”

Severus nods. Both boys were intelligent if unremarkable students.

“They work hard, and Whitmore is completing his mastery, but it’s difficult to keep up with the caseload and, as I said, we could use your help.” Potter waves a hand and summons a file jacket from Merlin knows where. He slides it across the table towards Severus. Judging from the word _CONFIDENTIAL_ stamped across the top in red block letters, he presumes he’s not supposed to see it, but Potter’s Head Auror, so if anyone can break protocol, Severus supposes he can.  

“The tissue samples were inconclusive and the blood work...” Potter makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Well, maybe you’ll have better luck making sense if it.” He rubs at his eyes, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. They leave a pink indentation on the bridge of his nose. “Whatever it is, though, it acts quickly, seems to metabolise entirely out of the victim’s system just as fast, and presents as an acute cardiac event with no apparent underlying cause.”  

Severus flips through the report. The medical examiner and Ministry investigative team appear to have run all the expected tests. There are toxicology reports for each victim. At first glance, they all appear normal. “Any poison designed to cause cardiac arrest should leave a magical signature.” 

“Yeah, that’s what Whitmore said.” 

Severus continues reading. “And Muggle drugs, Epinephrine, amphetamines—these can cause heart failure—but your medical examiner should have seen evidence.” 

“The tox write-ups came back clean,” Potter says, finishing his tea. Do you mind?” he asks, motioning towards the kettle. Potter stands before Severus can answer and pours himself a fresh cup. “You?” 

“No. I’m fine.” He turns back to the first page of the file. “And the victims?” Severus reviews the list of names. 

Alasdair Malkin, 42  
Iris Cook, 17  
Peter Harris, 86  
Miranda MacDonald, 67  
Aoife Murray, 12  
Amelia Powell, 24

“Victimology is all over the place,” Potter says. “Whoever is responsible shows no sex, location, or magical preference. Crosses age and racial lines, too.”

“Magical?”

“Yeah, Miranda MacDonald was a squib.”

“Peter Harris,” Severus says after a moment, “I recognise the name.”

“Yeah. He worked in Diagon Alley, passed information on to Dumbledore during the war.”

“And Amelia Powell, she was a Ravenclaw?”

Potter nods. “Two years behind me. Her entire family came to fight in the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“Were all the victims somehow connected to the Order?”

“No. That might have made things easier.” Potter laughs, but there’s no humour there. “Disgruntled Death Eater seeking revenge on whomever he feels wronged him. It'd be predictable, at least. But Iris Cook’s family was on holiday from Australia. They’d never been to Britain before. And Alasdair Malkin spent the duration of the war on the Continent with his family. Definitely no Order ties whatsoever.” 

“Murray...” Severus says then, making a connection. 

“Aoife was Fergus Murray’s daughter. He denied all involvement after the war. We weren’t able to convict him of anything but—”

“He was involved,” Severus finishes for him. “He was Marked too.”  
   
“I know,” Potter nods. “But barring an amendment to the legal code, having a Dark Mark is not a crime, in and of itself.” 

Severus picks up his teacup but finding only dregs, sets it down again. After the war, there was a loud constituency in the Ministry that argued for a legislative change. Simply bearing Voldemort’s Mark would have carried a mandatory Azkaban sentence. Luckily for Severus, though, the initiative was shot down by Potter and his surprisingly levelheaded supporters. Himself notwithstanding, Severus knows enough children pressured into taking the Mark who did not go on to commit unspeakable acts in the name of the Dark Lord. Although certainly a sign of poor choices, the Mark, alone, was not an automatic signifier of guilt. “So whoever is responsible is killing indiscriminately, at least with regard to wartime affiliation.” 

“Yep. Bad wizard is bad wizard.” Potter leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “We’ve yet to determine any agenda. Aside from killing, that is.” 

“Naturally.” Severus closes the case file. “Perhaps there was a single target?” 

“I considered that,” Potter says. “Just one intended victim and the rest were simply forensic countermeasures. Seems rather overkill then, though. Six bodies to hide the murder of one?” 

“Maybe. I suppose it depends on the motivation.” Severus, unfortunately, has known more than his share of wizards who spare no concern for collateral damage if it means eliminating one specific target. “So what now?” Severus asks. Potter has yet to reveal his investigative plan. 

“My magical detection squad is at St. Mungo’s. I’m still hoping they find something. And Ron’s team is running down a lead in Knockturn. Don’t have much, but the hospital did receive a questionable shipment about week ago. It went to the Hazardous Spell and Magical Trauma unit, though.  Not Emergency. And, from what I could gather from the mediwizard on duty, that division regularly requests items of the illicit and/or unsavory variety. Not that he provided any specifics, mind you.” Potter shakes his head. “Bloke was about as forthcoming as our Unspeakables. The wards on their stores are sound, though. Would have taken me the better part of a day to unravel them.” 

“Unless you had authorisation.” 

Potter inclines his head. “Yeah. But we’ve run background checks on everyone with access. Nothing came back. Besides, there are plenty of far less restricted things that you could use to poison someone in St. Mungo’s. It’d be easy enough to find something if you knew what you were looking for.”   
   
“Not that wouldn’t be detectable.” 

“True.” Potter stands and walks to the window. Severus can tell the man is tired from the slope of his shoulders, the line of his spine. Still, his body hums with pent-up magic. It hangs in the air like electricity. 

“And if it wasn't poison at all?”

“Then maybe it’s something you’ll recognise. You’ve got more experience with these kinds of things from...” Potter pauses, doesn’t say it, “well, from before than most of the boys on my force combined.”  Severus wants to laugh. Yes, he's got enough experience with homicidal dark wizards to last a lifetime. 

“Maybe you’d recognise it,” Potter says again, “but I sure don’t.” The man turns back to face him, his brow furrowed, eyes dark. “If this isn’t some poison, then whomever we’re dealing with has magic at his disposal that I’ve never seen before, and that doesn’t happen very often. Any spell that could kill like that, that could mask itself in that way, leave no trace behind...” Potter sits down again, fingers tapping against the wooden surface of the table. “The magic itself would be inherently dark, and the Ministry monitors such things.”

“City-wide detection spells?” Severus knows that magic is monitored, and all major spells traced. In the years after the war, there was a push for heightened security. New procedures were put in place to track magical activity and identify potential threats. The concept makes Severus’s skin crawl, but too many witches and wizards had witnessed firsthand what dark magic could do and were quick to trade their privacy for the promise of security. 

Severus understands, but it still makes him uncomfortable. He also knows that any truly powerful wizard could most likely evade such a detection mechanism anyway. 

“Yes, Kingsley and I are constantly tweaking the spells. They’re good. You’d be impressed at how precise they are.” 

“I’m sure I would be.” And Severus means it. Potter has always been powerful. Two years ago, he became the youngest Head Auror in the history of the department, and from all accounts, he’s proven beyond capable and skilled. 

“And what would you like me to do?”

“You?” Potter waggles his fingers in front of his face. “I want you to work your magic.” 

Severus rolls his eyes. 

***

“What’s the occasion?” Draco asks as he comes into the kitchen, eyeing the bottle of wine on the counter. It’s a ridiculously expensive Viognier Draco filched from the Manor the last time he was there. 

“Potter came by,” Severus says, taking two glasses from the cupboard. 

“Oh?” Draco pauses. His messenger bag is still slung over his shoulder. It’s late; he worked a long shift, but Severus expected as much with the ongoing investigation. “What did he want? Still saving the world, I take it?” Draco’s words are deliberately casual but Severus hears the slight waver in his voice.

“No doubt.” Severus opens the bottle of wine. “He wants my help.”

“Your help?” Draco frowns, setting his bag down and reaching for the glass Severus offers him. “What do you mean?”

“The murders at the hospital—they think there was a poison involved.” Severus takes a sip of his wine. It’s good. Worth every Galleon Draco didn’t spend. “Apparently the potions experts at the Ministry are imbeciles.”

“That’s the only explanation, really—that it was poison, not the part about the experts, though I imagine they are.” Draco says, sitting down. “I haven’t seen the files but nothing else makes sense.”

Severus sits down across from him. “None of the patients presented with heart issues?”

“No, they were all pictures of perfect health. Well, the youngest girl had Dragon Pox.” He shakes his head. “Nasty illness, that. We vaccinate for a reason, but when caught early it’s not life threatening, and her case was mild.”

“The others?”

“Spell damage. Spell damage. Unfortunate incident with a Blast-ended Skrewt. Broken bone. And,” Draco ticks off the ailments on his fingers, “a case of Muggle flu.”

Severus raises an eyebrow, and Draco smiles.

“The emergency Mediwizards see it all. Last Muggle disease we got in Paediatrics was a case of chickenpox.” He laughs. “Can you imagine? I mean, dragons you understand, but chickens? I thought I’d seen everything.” He picks up his wine glass but does not drink. “So you’ll be working with Potter?”

“Yes.”

*** 

Severus spends the following afternoon in his lab, a makeshift bit of wizard’s space off the back of the house overlooking the garden. 

After the war, he’d returned to Hogwarts because Minerva offered him his old Potions position and he had no desire to step foot in his father’s house at Spinners End again. He'd never particularly cared for teaching but the castle was his home, and it gave him something to do to fill the time and keep his mind from remembering things he’d prefer to forget. 

It was Minerva who suggested he sell his potions.  “ _You’ve got savings enough to last a lifetime, Severus. You could stay here, of course. I’d never ask you to leave. Or you could find yourself a nice flat, open a little shop front, and never have to interact with another student again._ ”  
   
Severus took her advice, minus the shop front part. He could do business perfectly well by Owl Order, _thankyouverymuch_ , and he never had to deal with a customer face-to-face. It’d been Draco who’d asked him to move in, and he’d done so with the stipulation that he could continue to sell his potions out of the townhouse. 

At times he still misses his dungeon rooms. He misses late night conversations with Minerva and Filius. And he misses detention. But Minerva was right: He doesn’t miss the students, and he is content with his new life. He couldn’t ask for anything more. 

He’s just finishing the base for an order of Veritaserum when the Floo buzzes. He sets his ladle on the counter and covers the cauldron with a lid, watching as droplets of steam form on the underside of the glass. He casts a stasis charm before heading to the den. Potter is waiting for him, head sticking out of the green flames. 

Severus lets him through, and the man tumbles out of the hearth with a loud “Ouff.” He climbs to his feet.  “One day I’ll figure out how do that properly,” he says, smoothing down the front of his worn jumper. It’s got his name stitched across the front in block print and what appears to be a miniature dragon curled around a golden egg. 

“Perhaps after another decade or so of practice,” Severus says and Potter flashes a wide smile. 

“I haven't been Floo’ing since birth, you know.” 

“Of course not. Just since the ripe old age of eleven.” 

“Exactly. Now, just a minute.” Potter turns back to the fireplace, pulling his wand from his pocket. He murmurs a quick incantation and the flames turn green again. Then a small box zooms out and into his hands. Severus assumes it’s his temporary Ministry credentials, but when Potter opens the lid, he sees a dozen neatly labelled glass vials.  “It’s the blood samples from the victims,” Potter says in way of explanation. “I thought you might prefer to work here.” 

“I...yes.” Severus was admittedly not looking forward to spending time in the Ministry labs with some Junior Potions Wizard lurking about, watching him over his back, waiting for him to do something unregulated or unauthorised. Surely, though, this is not standard procedure. “You are allowed to remove evidence from the Ministry?”  
   
Potter shrugs. “It’s my case. As long as I assure chain of custody isn’t broken, we’re good to go. So, if you'll just stand right here...” Potter puts on hand on Severus’s arm, guides him towards him. “Now take this.” He hands him the box. It sparks painfully against his palm. 

Severus grimaces. 

“Yeah, sorry about that. Let me just...” He waves his wand in an intricate loop. Severus feels the pulse of Potter’s magic against his fingertips. It presses into his palm and slips along his skin. The magic is tinged with dark, but rather than unsettling, Severus finds it soothing.  “There,” Potter says after a moment, stepping back. “The vials are keyed to you now and this place. No one else can tamper with them or, well, even touch them really. And you can’t leave with them, so I’d strongly advise not trying.” 

“Noted,” Severus says, resisting the urge to ask what would happen if he attempted to circumvent Potter’s wards. 

“So you’ll let me know what you find?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Thanks again for doing this, Professor. We need to catch this guy.”  

Severus nods. “I’ll do what I can.” 

***

Thankfully, Potter’s magic seems to approve of Severus’s lab. He sets the box on the table and pulls a silver bowl from the cupboard.  He takes the first vial from the box and turns it around between his fingers before breaking the wax seal.  The blood has congealed into a sickly black, but with a whispered spell it spills into the bowl. He touches his wand to the surface, and watches as ripples form, spreading outward. 

It looks like ink, and Severus can feel...something here. It’s not dark, per se, but it’s not innocuous either.  That doesn’t make sense. Potter’s team could not find any magical cause for the deaths. There shouldn’t be magic here, yet it slips across his skin and tugs at his spine in a way that is vaguely, unsettlingly familiar.  

Severus frowns. Something isn’t right. 

He touches the tip of his wand to the blood again; its surface swirls and foams. Magic pricks his palm when he raises his wand, and he watches the thin stream of blue and silver characters coalesce in the air before him, shimmer briefly, and disappear.

Severus runs the test again.

***

“Severus! Severus!”

He’s just sat down with a cup of tea when he hears Draco calling from the den. He hurries in to see what’s going on. Draco’s shift should have ended an hour ago. 

He hasn’t come through and Severus can tell from the look of him that something is wrong.  His face is pinched and drawn.  Even through the green of the flame, Severus can see the circles that purple his eyes, the lines etched in his handsome face. He looks older than his twenty-six years. Severus frowns. “What is it?"

“There’s been two more murders.” 

“With Potter and his Aurors crawling about?” 

“Yes. It’s got everyone in quite a panic. Especially since, apparently, no one can figure out what the hell’s going on.” 

 

“I’m working on it.”

Draco nods. “I know. And I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Until, then, though, we’re on lockdown. Potter thinks it’s some sort of inside job, so everyone in the building stays in the building, at least until the preliminary investigation is complete and all the usual suspects are interrogated.” At that he rolls his eyes; Severus understands his frustration. 

Draco will always be a person of interest, will always have those who presume him guilty, simply by virtue of the mark on his arm. It’s an unfortunate if foreseeable consequence of choices made nearly a decade ago.  “Do you need anything? Can I send something through?”

“No. I ate a sandwich earlier.” Draco glances back over his shoulder. “Besides, I doubt the wards would let anything in right now.” 

“All right. I’ll be here whenever you’re done.” 

Draco smiles. “I know. That’s one of the many things I love about you.” 

The flames flicker and go out. Severus draws his wand to cast a Patronus, send Potter a message.  He’s sure the man has his hands full, but he needs to see him, especially now that two more people are dead. 

Severus has just sat down again to his now cold tea when Potter’s stag bursts through the door.  It pauses, for a second, head cocked to the side, before Potter’s voice spills from its mouth: _‘Finishing up here. I’ll Floo when I can.’_  Once the stag has delivered the message, it prances around the room in one large loop, looking ridiculously pleased with itself before dissipating in a plume of silver smoke. 

It’s several hours before the Floo buzzes. Draco hasn’t returned, but Severus hadn’t expected him to. Potter stumbles but doesn’t fall as he exits the fireplace. 

“How you ever managed to stay on a broom,” Severus says as the man rights himself. 

Potter grins. “Well, you know what they say about brooms...”

Severus doesn’t, but Potter doesn’t elaborate. “So, you found something?”

“It’s more that I didn’t find anything,” Severus says, walking towards the kitchen. 

Once in the lab, Potter perches on the edge of Severus’s desk. “What do you mean?” he asks, arms folded, grey wool of his robes pulled taut across chest.

Severus explains the tests he ran on the samples and the results he received.

“A dampening spell, huh?” Potter scratches his head.  “That’s unexpected.” 

“The spell, in and of itself, wouldn’t require much power to maintain.”  
   
“Well, that’s good I guess. Glad we’re not dealing with some new super wizard.” Potter furrows his brow. “He’s damn effective though.”  
   
Severus can’t disagree. 

“So how does it work?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Severus responds honestly.

“Huh,” Potter says again. “I’ll admit, when my detection spells turned up nothing, I was sure it was poison.” He laughs. “Well, that and the complete absence of any underlying cause of death.” 

It was not a flawed assumption. 

Potter pulls his wand from the back pocket of his jeans and gestures towards the row of neatly labelled vials. “May I?”

Severus inclines his head. “They’re your samples.”

Potter takes one of the glass tubes and pours its contents into the silver bowl before murmuring an unfamiliar incantation. The liquid glows for a moment and then pulses slightly. A thread of characters appears in the air above the bowl. Potter frowns. “That mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“No, I don’t suppose it should.” Potter bites his lip. Severus can’t help but watch his mouth, watch white teeth press into pink skin. He looks away.

“Okay,” Potter says after a moment. “At least I can tell the team at St. Mungo’s what to look for in _Priori Incantatem_. Even with the…other magic, they’ll be able to detect a dampening spell.” Potter does not explain what he means by ‘other’ magic, nor does he explain the spell he cast on the sample and whatever information he gleaned from it. “Though, it’s not as though a dampening spell is all that suspect, especially at Mungo’s. Spell damages alone must cast dozens a day.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. “So, you’ll tell me what you find?”

“I’m sorry?”

“About the magic.”

Severus frowns. He’s already determined that the victims were not poisoned, and Potter clearly has more than enough magical expertise and power—Severus can feel the power—to solve this case…or any case, most likely, without him.

Potter bounces on the soles of his feet. The man exudes pent-up energy. “The dampening spell is masking something. I mean, obviously a dampening spell never killed anyone. But the way it’s attached…” he trails off for a moment, shaking his head. “The masking agent seems standard enough, but I can always read the underlying spell work. Here, though,” he pauses again, lips pursed, “I can’t figure it out. Which makes me think the dampening spell is doing more than merely concealing the active magic.”

Severus hadn’t thought of that. “You think it serves some function aside from concealment?’

“It would make sense. You see it with potions all the time. One element changes the effect of another. Ingredients that are dangerous on their own are rendered innocuous or vice versa. The combination always behaves differently than its separate parts.”

Potter’s knowledge shouldn’t surprise him. The man is a far cry from the recalcitrant student he once taught. Severus would know; he’s living with one of those former students. And, as much as he disliked Potter and his Gryffindor cohorts at Hogwarts, his own Slytherins gave him far more trouble than the Boy Hero ever did. 

***

It’s nearly three when Severus hears the whoosh of the Floo. He’s in bed reading, an empty wine glass on the bedside cabinet beside him. 

“You’re still awake?” Draco asks, stepping into their room. He looks exhausted. His eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot, lined with dark circles. 

“Just doing a bit of research,” Severus says, closing the book he’s holding. “I take it you are no longer a person of interest in the ongoing investigation?”

Draco shrugs. “'Suppose. Though, I’m on restricted magic.”  
   
Severus frowns. “What does that mean?”

“It means it's bloody difficult to do my job.” He toes off his trainers, kicks them to the side. “They put a trace on my magic. Certain spells require authorisation. Apparently something came up on my Priori. Merlin knows what they were looking for.” 

“A dampening spell,” Severus says as Draco takes off his robe. He sniffs at it, curling his nose in distaste before discarding it on the floor. Sometimes the man appears to forget that they don’t keep an elf. 

“A dampening spell? Seriously? I cast a half dozen of those per shift. Never killed anyone with one either, far as I know, at least.”  He tugs his shirt over his head. It joins the robe and trainers on the floor.  “Potter’s going to have a long list of suspects if he actually thinks a dampening spell’s responsible. That’s standard fare in most wards.”  He undoes his belt, pulls it off. This he rolls into a loop and sets atop the dresser before emptying his pockets, tossing loose change into the ceramic tray there. He turns back to Severus.  “How would that even work? A dampening spell is about the farthest thing from dark magic that I can think of.” 

“Potter thinks it’s a masking agent.” 

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Well, I give points for creativity on that.” 

Severus snorts. “True.” He won’t admit so to Potter, but he’s found the magical theory involved in the case intriguing. 

Draco runs a hand through his hair, wincing a bit. “I have to take a shower. I think I actually smell.” 

At that Severus smiles. “After a sixteen-hour shift complete with interrogation by Auror? Imagine that.” 

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, well, you know how I can’t stand being dirty.” He heads for the adjoining en suite. “I’ll be to bed soon,” he says, shutting the door behind him. 

Severus turns off the light. Outside, a car drives past. Its lights flash against the window. The leaded panes are slicked with the evening’s rain but the night is clear now. The moon casts pale shadows across the rug. After a few minutes, he hears Draco turn the water off, get out of the shower. He considers rolling over, pretending to sleep, but he doesn’t. The door opens again. Draco has a towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hand. Severus watches as he pats his hair dry, goes to the bureau for a pair of flannel sleep pants. He tosses his wet towels into the bathroom and flicks off the light before climbing into bed. 

Severus should touch him. Should pet his now clean hair and draw circles on his skin as he used to do when closeness was as natural as breathing.  But Draco rolls over, leaving an ocean of white rumpled sheets between them. 

“Would I be a horrid person,” he begins after a moment, voice soft and far away, “if I wished just one more person would die tonight while I’m home so no one will think I'm a murderer when I wake up tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Severus says, and he does reach out, does rest a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “But I would understand.” 

***

There are no murders overnight and, judging from the lack of any iridescent stags prancing about in his lab, Severus gathers that no one is killed during the morning shift either.

He’s preparing the base for an order of Dreamless Sleep when Draco appears at the door. He’s dressed in his Mediwizard robes, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“Are you leaving?” he asks, measuring out the dry ingredients into the cauldron.

“Yes.” Draco hesitates, fingers trailing down the strap of his bag. “Potter’s here.”

“Has there been another murder?” Severus covers the potion; steam collects in fine droplets on the underside of the glass lid.

“No. He just wants to talk about the case.” His tone is off; he sounds strangely distant.

“Did you let him through?” 

“Of course. He’s in the sitting room.” 

Severus cleans his ladle and wipes his hands. The base will have to simmer for half an hour. “Will you be home for dinner?” 

“I’m off at eight. You don’t have to wait for me.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

Draco smiles, but it’s the same thin smile of late. The murders, the stress at work has been getting to him. He’s overdue for some time off. 

Severus moves to follow him through the kitchen and into the front room where Potter is waiting, but Draco stops, turns to look at him. “Do you think he’s close?”

“Pardon?”

“Potter, do you think he’s close to solving this thing?”

“I’m not sure.” Severus puts a hand on Draco’s arm but lets it fall away again. “I hope so.”  
   
Draco nods and heads for the Floo. Potter is staring out the window. He turns when they enter the room. Draco inclines his head in acknowledgment before taking a pinch of powder from the tin on the mantle. He calls out ‘St. Mungo’s, Employees’ Entrance’ as he disappears into a swirl of green flame. 

***

Potter wants to talk about magic. 

They’re back in Severus’s lab. Severus is finishing the order of Dreamless Sleep. He’s slicing the asphodel; his knife moves precisely over the thin stalks. He’s already removed the lilac flowers. They sit in a pile off to the side of his cutting board, reserved for later. He will add the petals last. 

Potter sits in the one overstuffed armchair next to Severus’s desk. He’s staring at the ceiling, long legs stretched out in front of him as he leans back, head resting against the chair’s cushion. Severus’s eyes are drawn to the pale column of his throat, the slight bulge of his Adam’s apple. He picks up his ladle again, testing the viscosity of his potion. 

The man’s knowledge of magical theory is astounding. Potter rattles off a litany of advanced dark spells, noting various permutations, possible combinations, and the foreseeable effects as easily as if he’s reciting entries in a first year’s magical primer. 

“This magic,” Severus asks, “have you seen it?” Severus’s own knowledge of spell work is vast but he’s never considered some of the possibilities Potter describes. 

“Some of it, yeah. A lot of it’s just in my head though.” He looks up at Severus. Behind his glasses, his eyes are so damn green. “It would work though.” 

Severus doesn’t doubt it. “Do you write spells?” He isn’t sure why he asks; of course the man does. 

“No.” At Severus’s raised eyebrow, Potter actually looks ashamed; a rosy pink stains his cheeks. “I mean, I invent magic when necessary. And I can usually make it do what I want. But as far as writing spells down in a way others could use them? No, I’ve never really got the hang of that. My magic doesn’t seem to work for others.” 

Of course not, Severus thinks. You’re too bloody powerful. 

“I understand the dampening spell as the primary acting agent,” Potter continues, “brilliant that, really, but what I still don’t get is why I haven’t been able to determine the underlying virulent spell work. Once we figured out it was a masking device, my detection spells should have picked something up. Merlin knows I’ve honed them enough.”

Severus stirs counter clockwise, counting to thirty before answering. “And if there is no other magic?”

Potter frowns. “There has to be, right? A dampening spell just depresses magic. It doesn’t drain it away. And, even if it did, temporary loss of magic wouldn’t result in heart failure. Not in an otherwise healthy person, that is.” He sits up, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“No,” Severus agrees, “it wouldn’t”

“And let’s say the intent was to target, to dampen the healing magic being used on the patient. That could result in fatality, presuming the healing magic was life-saving.”

“But it wasn’t.” Severus watches as his potion turns from violet to an icy blue. “Draco said each of the victims was being treated for non-threatening conditions.”

“Right. So what happened?” He gets up, moves to stand beside Severus. Severus thinks he can smell the spicy scent of his aftershave. “How the hell does such seemingly innocuous magic kill eight people?”

Severus doesn’t know the answer. He turns off the heat under his cauldron and begins decanting the potion into thin glass vials. “What if the dampening spell didn’t just dampen? What if it reacted with whatever healing spells were in use to create something that could cause harm?”

“It’s possible, but I still should have been able to trace the resulting magic.” Potter paces the length of the room. He’s practically radiating pent-up energy. It crackles against Severus’s skin like electricity. “Unless,” he turns to face Severus, eyes bright behind his glasses, “unless it wasn’t about the magic at all. What if it was about the intent?”

“The intent?”

“Yes, you know how important intention is in magic. Take the Unforgivables, for instance. A Crucio takes power to cast, of course, but it also takes intent. I can say the word and have the power, the magic to back it up, but unless I intend to truly hurt you, the spell won’t work.” 

Severus nods. It’s a blessing and a curse that only those truly bent on causing suffering can work the spells most capable of such pain. 

“And it’s not just Unforgivables. I do it sometimes with lesser magic.” He shakes his head. “The amount of times, for instance, I’ve used basic disarming spells to do far more than disarm.”

At that Severus actually laughs. He remembers the acclaim Potter used to receive when he routinely incapacitated dark wizards using non-lethal means, even if the result was, at times, very lethal. “Yes, it’s amazing what an Expelliarmus can do when the _intent_ is to disarm by whatever means necessary, including rebounding whatever spell your opponent casts right back at him.” The boy was talented, that much was clear and, even as a teenager, his understanding of the nuances, the possibilities of magic was impressive. 

Potter grins. “In my defence, I did disarm every time…among other things.”

“Naturally.” 

“So what if the intent of our murderer wasn’t merely to dampen the healing magic but to dampen the healer’s ability to heal?”

“Meaning?” Severus sets five neatly labelled vials of Dreamless Sleep aside; they’ll go out with the evening’s Owl Post.

“What if I cast a dampening spell on healing magic with the intent that I not depress the magic but take away from its healing properties all together and, therefore, transform it into something virulent?”

“Then the dampening spell could create an opposite effect on the targeted magic?”

“In theory.” Potter takes his wand from his back pocket and waves it over Severus’s desk. 

Severus feels the press of Potter’s magic. It’s dark but silver streaked. But then he feels the distinctive pull against his own magic as Potter’s dampening spell sweeps against his skin. He cringes. “So help me Potter, if you’ve destroyed two days’ worth of work by rendering my outgoing potions orders ineffective with that spell then I’ll—”

“No, no,” Potter cuts him off, gesturing with a hand. “It’s localized to your desk.” He pauses, looks mildly concerned. “Unless, er… You don’t have anything critical stored in the drawers, do you?”  
    
Severus does not roll his eyes. “Luckily for you, no.” 

Potter grins. He takes a book from the corner of Severus’s desk and places it in the centre. “All righty then. If you’ll just cast a Leviosa on _Eighty Two Magical Herbs of the British Isles_ …scintillating reading, that.”

Severus glares, but Potter only smiles wider.  Severus does not draw his wand. An average dampening spell might not have much effect on Severus’s magic, but he’s certain that Potter’s could render even his most powerful spells useless. 

“Just humour me here,” Potter says. “I’d like to test my theory.”  
   
“Should I try to circumvent your dampening spell?”

Potter bows, sweeping an arm out in front of him. “Be my guest.” 

Severus casts the spell. He can feel the dampening magic clinging to the air, covering the desk’s surface, pressing against the book. And he can feel it tugging against his magic, absorbing it into the fabric of its own spell work. But the magic isn’t all that powerful. Severus focuses, channels more magic into the spaces the dampening spell touches. His own magic is stronger and, even with the constant pull, the book begins to rise into the air. It’s just about to break free from the net of Potter’s dampening spell when something clamps down on his magic like a vice. The force hits him physically, a blow to the gut that knocks the air out of his lungs. The room feels heavy, oppressive, and thick with magic, but his own magic is slipping beyond his control. It sparks painfully against his palm before sliding through his hand like sand. He can’t gather it; it’s too slick, too smooth, and just out of his reach.

The book slams down on the desk so hard it cracks the wooden surface.

Potter murmurs a word and the spell releases. Severus’s magic comes rushing back with a whoosh.

“Wow,” Potter says, breathless.

“What the hell was that?” Severus says. 

“That…that was bloody awesome.”

“Potter!” Severus’s voice is sharper than he intends, but Potter’s spell has left him entirely out of sorts. 

Potter waves a hand, repairing Severus’s desk. “That was my intention. And that is how our murderer is killing with a dampening spell.”  He leans over, pressing his palms to the surface of the now mended desk. “I cast a dampening spell. I just changed my intent. Rather than merely depressing your magic, I asked the spell to reverse it.”

“And it worked.”

Potter nods. “Only because my intent stayed true to the point of the spell. Your magic _was_ dampened, just not in the way you might traditionally expect.”

Severus understands. “The murderer is using dampening magic but his intention is to dampen not by restricting magic, but by forcing an opposite reaction.” 

Potter nods. “So the minor healing magic our Mediwizards cast on their patients actually becomes killing magic. It’s brilliant, really. If it weren’t so terrifying, of course,” Potter quickly adds. 

Severus doesn’t disagree. “So how do we catch him?”

“I think I have an idea.” 

***

Three days later, Potter solves the case. 

Severus is in the kitchen attempting to attach an order to the leg of one of his delivery owls when the Floo buzzes. The owl scoots sideways down the window ledge and out of Severus’s grasp. He sighs, placing the brown paper package on the counter. “Stay,” he commands the owl with a glare. The owl hoots indignantly, but doesn’t move. 

Severus goes into the sitting room to find Draco's head in the fireplace.  “Is everything okay?” His shift isn’t over for three hours. 

“Yes,” Draco says. “I’ve gone on break. Potter’s done it. He’s caught the bastard.”

“The murderer?”

“Yes. I don’t know details but the boys in Emergency say it was an impressive piece of magic.” Draco rolls his eyes. “But of course it was. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.” The comment confuses Severus, but Draco is still talking. “I have to go. See you tonight?”

“Yes. I’ll get take away.”

“Great.” Draco smiles, cutting the connection.

Severus stands up. He resists the urge to send a Patronus to Potter.  Instead, he returns to the kitchen to continue negotiations with his delivery owl.

***

That evening Severus walks to the local pizzeria. He orders a pizza with sausage and peppers for Draco and a margarita for himself; he rarely eats meat anymore. 

Potter is waiting when he gets back to the townhouse. He’s sitting on the front stoop, a six-pack of beer on the step beside him. 

“Mr. Potter,” Severus says, moving past him to unlock the door. “What are you doing here?” 

Potter scrambles to his feet, follows him into the front hall.  “Did you hear? We caught the guy.”  
   
“Yes,” Severus says, closing the door behind them. “Draco told me. Nicely done.” 

Potter smiles and holds up the six-pack. “Well, I thought I owed you a drink.”  
   
In the kitchen, Severus puts Draco's pizza on the stovetop and casts a warming charm over it. “Was it someone on the inside?” he asks.  

“Yes. Leonidas Gordon. He’s an orderly.” Potter takes a beer, spins it around between his palms. “Apparently he applied to the Mediwizard programme two years in a row but was rejected both times. Didn’t have the marks.” 

Severus takes two plates from the cupboard and opens his margarita pizza. “Would you like some?”

“Yeah, thanks. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten.” Potter takes two slices as Severus sits down across from him, puts a slice on his own plate.  “His magic is clearly adequate.” 

“Yes, creative too. He felt slighted. There was resentment there. Wanted to get back at the healers.” Potter takes a bite of pizza. “This is good.” 

Severus nods. He folds his own slice in half before taking a bite. The cheese is hot against his tongue. He takes a sip of beer to wash it down. “How did you do it?” he asks after a moment when Potter doesn’t offer any additional information. 

The man takes another bite of pizza, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I used a containment spell of sorts.” He looks at Severus, mouth curving slightly. “You would have been impressed.” 

“Oh?” Severus hides his smile behind another sip of beer.

“Yeah. I put up wards around the unit. Detection spells weren’t enough, so I asked the wards to react to dampening with ill intent.” 

The way Potter talks about magic is fascinating. This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned “asking” magic to do certain things, as though it’s as simple as requesting its cooperation in completing especially complex and difficult spell work. Though, perhaps, for Potter, it is. “And you created wards sentient enough to determine intent?”

“Yes, well…” Potter takes a long swig of beer. “Not exactly, but I designed them to not only detect when a dampening spell was used but to also determine if it were reacting negatively with healing magic.”

“And your spell work had the precision to alert you before any harm came to another patient?”

“It was precise,” Potter says, opening another beer, “but I wasn’t going to risk another fatality. So here’s the really neat part: I wove a rebounding spell into the ward work.”

Severus raises an eyebrow. 

“Cool, huh? When my wards detected the spell, they deflected it right back at the caster, draining his magic and, better yet, knocking him out cold.” Potter laughs. “We found Gordon unconscious in the corridor outside of Emergency.”

Severus finishes his slice of pizza and takes another from the box. Potter was right: He is impressed. “I see now why they keep you around that Ministry of yours.”

Potter laughs again; his smile is wide and bright. “I knew there was a reason Kingsley has put up with me for all these years.” 

“So Gordon is in Auror custody?”

“Yeah. Ron’s interrogation team had a confession out of him in under an hour. Trial will be set for next month some time.” Potter picks at the red and gold label on his beer bottle. Severus likes him here, sitting across the table in his kitchen, but he refuses to think about what that means. He’s never had many friends. That Potter would become one now is unexpected, to say the least.

“Does Draco mind?” Potter asks after a moment, his green eyes fixed on Severus.

The question confuses Severus. “Mind what?”

“Me coming ‘round like this.”

Severus frowns. “Why on earth would he?”

Something flits across Potter’s expression briefly, but it’s gone before Severus can read it properly. “No reason.”

***

The Floo buzzes while Draco is getting ready for his shift. Severus is by the fire with a cup of tea, reading the most recent issue of _Potions Quarterly._ It no longer surprises him to see Potter’s head in the flames. 

“Mr. Potter,” he says, bending down in front of the hearth, “has something changed with the case?”

“What? Oh, no. We’re still set for trial end of next month. Your statement concerning the spell detection procedure will be admissible. I doubt you’ll have to appear before the Wizengamot.” 

Severus nods. He knows this. “Then to what do I owe this...pleasure?” He tries to inject his usual sarcasm into the comment, but finds it lacking. 

Potter smiles. His teeth are starkly white in the green glow of the fire. “I just got off work.  I know Malfoy’s been on nights lately, so I thought, perhaps, you’d like to pop out for dinner. There's this curry place I've been meaning to try.”  
   
Severus looks over his shoulder. He can hear Draco in the kitchen, most likely finishing the leftover take away and having a quick cuppa before Floo'ing to St. Mungo’s. “I, yes,” Severus finds himself saying. “I’d like that.” 

“Brilliant.” Potter beams. “Come through in fifteen minutes. I’ll set the wards to let you in.”  
   
Severus nods and closes the connection. When he stands and turns away, Draco is there, his white Mediwizard robe slung over his arm. 

“Potter?”

“Yes. We’re going to have dinner.”  
   
His face falls slightly, a subtle downturn of lips, and when he looks at Severus his grey eyes are sad. But then he smiles again. “If I didn’t know you better I’d think there was something going on between you.”  
   
Severus can’t mask his surprise. “What?” 

Draco shakes his head. There’s fondness in his expression but it’s mixed with something that Severus can’t decipher.

“He’s always fancied you, you know.” 

Of all the things Severus thought Draco might say, that’s the farthest thing from it. “What?” he says again. He feels off balance, as though Draco’s knocked the wind from his lungs. “Potter’s straight.” Because of course he is. 

Draco laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

At Severus’s look, Draco frowns. “Oh, no. You aren’t. Severus, the Golden Boy’s as bent as I am.” He shakes his head, seems mildly amused. “What would _The Prophet_ say?”  He laughs again. “Actually I know exactly what they’d say, as it was literally the exclusive story for two months straight several years back when inquiring minds _had_ to know why Our Saviour hadn’t married the Weasley girl. But that was when you were avoiding _The Prophet_ on principle and _Witch Weekly_ isn’t really to your taste either.” Draco smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m quite certain he had a thing for you clear back at school.” He pulls on his robes, tucks his credentials badge into his pocket. “Fifth year, precisely, when you started giving him those private sessions.”  
   
It’s all Severus can do to form the words. “I didn’t know.”  
   
“Of course you didn’t. I practically had to put out an advertisement to get you to notice me. And even then, it took the better part of a decade to convince you that engaging in a relationship with a former student wasn’t the next worse thing to an Unforgivable.”  
   
“I’m glad you were persistent.”  
   
Draco shrugs. “Worked out in the end.” 

“Do you mind?” Severus asks then because he’s suddenly concerned he’s done something inappropriate. 

“Pardon?”

“That I eat dinner with Potter. Is that all right?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” Draco glances at his watch. “I need to go. I’m off at half seven tomorrow morning. We’ll do breakfast?”

“Yes.” 

***

Twenty minutes later, Severus Floos to Potter’s flat. He steps out of the hearth onto a colourful woven rug. The room is small but comfortably furnished. The worn leather couch is strewn with pillows; neat stacks of books and magazines line the coffee table. 

“Is that you, Professor?” Potter calls from somewhere down the hall. 

“Yes,” he replies, wondering if, perhaps, Potter might be expecting someone else. 

“I’ll be out soon. Just make yourself comfortable.”  
   
Severus sits down in one on the chairs flanking the fireplace. There’s a half drunk cup of tea on the side table atop a manila file jacket. A few minutes later, Potter emerges. He’s dressed casually in faded blue jeans and a grey long-sleeved t-shirt. The man’s hair is wet; he’s clearly just taken a shower.  His feet are bare. It’s strangely intimate. 

Potter sits down on the couch. “Hey,” he says with a grin. “I’m glad you could join me.” He waves a hand. A pair of trainers followed closely by some socks zip into the room. He bends over to pull the striped socks on before slipping on the shoes. Severus watches his hands as he does up the laces. Then he stands. “Okay, let’s go.” 

Potter’s flat is on the lower ground floor. The night is crisp and cool, the sky clear. Severus stands, hands in his pockets, as Potter locks the door, secures the wards with a casual wave of his hand. Together, they climb the stairs to the street. The ground floor is occupied by a law firm. ‘Offices of Little, Martin, and Winchester’ is stencilled on the door in block letters. 

“This way,” Potter says, turning to head down the street. 

There’s a  _shisha_  cafe on the corner, and music spills out from the Middle Eastern club next door.  The air smells distinctly of rose flower oil and hookah. “How long have you lived on Edgware?” Severus asks, keeping pace with Potter’s quick strides. 

“Two years. I rented a place on Diagon when I first joined the corps, but I prefer it here, away from Wizarding London.”  
   
Severus understands. 

“It’s easy enough to Apparate, if I don't want to deal with the Floo. Or, the Tube station’s just two blocks away. Here we are,” Potter says, dashing across the street. Severus follows. 

The restaurant is small and crowded. They’re seated at a table towards the back. Potter fiddles with his napkin, traces a whorl in the wood grain of the table top with his finger. “I could really use a drink,” he says. “Beer?”

Severus nods. 

When the waiter appears, Potter asks for two pints of Boddingtons and a plate of samosas before leaning back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. His shirt rides up, exposing a thin line of pale skin. Severus looks down at his menu. 

“I’ve heard the curries are really good,” Potter says. “Or the biriani.” 

Severus is hungry. The smell of spices wafting from the kitchen is mouth watering. 

The waiter returns with their drinks and appetizer. Potter takes a long swig, draining a third of the glass.

“Long day,” he says in explanation, setting his glass down and reaching for a pastry. “And I’m so hungry I could eat a Hippogriff.” 

Severus nods and takes a samosa from the plate. It’s hot and flakes apart under his fingers. “Another case?”

“There’s always another case. I wasn’t out in the field today though. Had some paperwork to catch up on.” He takes another long drink of beer. “Talk about a headache. Are you ready to order?”

Severus nods and Potter signals for the waiter.

“What can I get you?” the man asks, pulling a small notepad from his pocket. 

Potter selects the chicken biraini with a side of nan. “And another of these,” he says, motioning to his nearly empty glass. 

Severus chooses the vegetable curry and shakes his head when the waiter points to his own drink. “I imagine paperwork is a consistent feature of your position.”

“Yeah. I can delegate some. Enough to keep the junior Aurors busy at least. But I have to sign off on most casework anyway, so it almost all crosses my desk at some point.” The waiter appears with Potter’s second beer. The man slides a thumb down the side of his glass, tracing the condensation there. “Thanks again,” he says after a moment. 

“I’m sorry?”

“The case. I couldn’t have solved it without you.” He laughs. “Well, actually I probably could have done, but it was certainly easier with your help.”

Severus inclines his head. “It was a pleasure.” He doesn’t realise until the words are out of his mouth how true they are. 

Potter smiles. 

Their food arrives. Potter was right: The curry is good. He spears a piece of tofu with his fork; it is spicy and perfectly tender. 

“So, Professor,” Potter says after a few minutes, “how have you been? Are you happy?” 

Severus pauses, fork midair. The question catches him off guard. “I am not unhappy.”  
   
This makes Potter laugh. “Well, I suppose that’s something.”  
   
Severus takes a long sip of his beer. Potter is watching him, green eyes dark behind his glasses. His gaze unnerves him. 

“And Draco?” Potter pops a piece of chicken into his mouth, then licks the sauce off his fingers. His hands are thick, square. “Before this case, it’d been a while since I’d seen him.”  
   
“Draco is well. Though, recent events have been...difficult for him.”  Of all his Slytherins, Draco is perhaps the one of whom Severus is most proud. Despite his privileged upbringing, Lucius’s allegiances and his own poor choices had left him with considerable obstacles to overcome. A weaker, less determined wizard would have given up, perhaps disappeared into obscurity on the continent. But not Draco. He returned to school. Worked hard and ultimately excelled.  He is a good Mediwizard and, now, Severus can honestly say he is a good man. 

“You can apologise to him,” Potter lowers his voice, affects a professional tone, “on behalf of the Aurors and the Minister himself—I’m able to do that, you know, apologise for Kingsley. But seriously, I know interrogations blow.” He shakes his head. “Believe me, I do. And this one was rough. I mean, a bloody dampening spell? Do you know how many Mediwizards we were forced to question?” He picks up his beer but, finding it empty, sets it down again. “I’m going to have one more. Do you want one?”  
   
“Yes.”

“You never married,” Severus says after the waiter has left again.

Potter stares at him for a moment, mouth half open. “You’re kidding, right?”

Severus is not. “You and Ginevra were well suited for one another.”  
   
At that, the man actually laughs. “If you believe that, you’re far denser than I thought possible.” He takes a sip of his drink; his mouth is wet with it when he lowers his glass. “Ginny and I are good friends. We’ve always been, and she’s attended more than her share of Ministry functions with me,” he says, expression fond. “But that was just to keep the press from speculating as to why I didn’t have a date. We’ve never been together. I’ve never liked her like that.” He takes another swig of his beer and looks directly at Severus. “I’ve never liked any girl like that.” 

Severus doesn’t say anything. Draco, of course, just told him of Potter’s preferences, but he’s not sure he truly believed him. Or, at least, he hadn’t chosen to think about it, lest he... He stops there. Lest he what? He feels out of focus. Potter has a way of knocking him entirely off balance. His hand shakes as he picks up his drink. 

“Surely you knew?” Potter says laughing nervously. “I mean, it’s a good thing you’re taken and I haven’t been trying to come on to you or...” He laughs again, but it comes out like a cough. “Well, you won’t get far with a man if he doesn’t even realise you’re gay.” He shakes his head and drains the rest of his drink. 

“Draco might have mentioned something once,” Severus says slowly. He feels as though he’s treading on thin ice. “But I hadn’t thought much of it.”  

“Of course not,” Potter says. “Why would you?”  He smiles then, a wide, forced smile. “So, you and Draco?”

“Yes…”

“I always thought there might be something between you. You did favour your Slytherins.”

Severus grows cold. “I did not. I would never...”

Potter seems to realise his mistake, holds up a hand, backpedals quickly.  “No, no, that’s not what I meant, I didn’t mean to imply...”

But Severus cuts him off. It’s important he says this: “Draco was twenty-four when we got together. I never touched a student.” 

“Of course not,” Potter says. He reaches out, places a hand on Severus’s arm. Severus feels the warmth of his touch through the fabric of his shirt. “Luckily, though, that doesn’t apply to former students.” 

*** 

Severus and Draco eat breakfast at the café down the street from the townhouse. It’s one of Draco’s favourite places. Severus doesn’t really understand the appeal, but the tea is tolerable and the chocolate scones—when they have them—are entirely adequate. 

Draco stirs sugar into his coffee. Severus watches his hands; pale fingers tap the teaspoon against the saucer.

“How was your shift?”

Draco smiles a warm, genuine smile. “It was good. Really good, actually. Do you remember the baby I told you about?”

Severus nods. He picks at his scone; crumbs scatter on the tabletop. “You thought spell damage?”

“Yes, but the mother swore she hadn’t been exposed to any unusual magic and she wasn’t responding to any of our treatments.” He takes a sip of his coffee, winces, and then opens another packet of sugar. “Well it reminded me of something I’d about read in school. Wizards can have intolerances to certain kinds of magic.  Usually it manifests as a natural aversion that particular class of spells. You might not even recognise that you shy away from, say, transfigurations. Your skin prickles, your wand sparks against your palm, you don’t demonstrate any proclivity towards the spell work, so you avoid it. No harm done.” He smears jam on his croissant. “But, occasionally, the wizard suffers from more than just an intolerance. It’s rare, but you can actually suffer acute adverse reactions to magic—like an allergy. And, as with allergies, the reaction might be subtle at first, but it can build up over time until, one day, even minimal exposure can be life-threatening.” 

Severus takes a bite of scone; it’s buttery and rich. “Did the child present with anaphylaxis?” 

“Yes, but that’s common in cases of severe spell damage or numerous dark spells. No one considered that she might simply be allergic to her mother’s minor household charms.” 

“And you were able to treat her?”

“Yes.” Draco beams. It’s been weeks since Severus has seen him look so happy. “She should be cleared for discharge tomorrow. Though, there’ll be some adjustments, of course, to be made at home.” He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms across his chest. “No more bottle warming or nappy cleansing spells, to be sure.” 

“A small price to pay,” Severus says, drinking his tea. 

The waitress comes by, refills Draco’s coffee. Severus tries not to roll his eyes as she leans in close, brushes against Draco’s side. They’ve been coming here for the better part of two years. Surely the girl knows he’s not interested. 

“Scorpius will be visiting this weekend?” Severus asks, once the waitress has moved on to another table. 

“Yes. Astoria will Floo him over Friday around lunchtime.” 

“I thought, perhaps, we’d go to the zoo. They recently opened the new gorilla enclosure.  He enjoyed the Africa exhibit when we went last. I’m sure he’ll find gorillas equally entertaining.”  

Draco looks down into his coffee cup.  “Actually, I was going to tell you, but I’m going to take Scorpius to Wiltshire for the weekend.” 

Severus tries not to show his disappointment.  He’s grown quite fond of Scorpius. The boy has his father’s intelligence but his mother’s warm enthusiasm and kind and caring nature.  “I see.” 

“I have the weekend off and Mother hasn’t seen Scorpius in months now,” Draco adds in explanation. 

Severus nods. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No.”  Draco shakes his head, takes the last bite of his croissant. “Enjoy your freedom. I’ll be home Sunday.” 

***

On Friday evening, Severus Floos Potter. 

Draco and Scorpius have gone to the Manor and, frankly, he doesn’t feel like eating alone.  Not long ago, he’d have welcomed the solitude. Now though, he craves Potter’s company; he can’t get the man out of his head.  He doesn’t stop to think about what that means, but he feels as though he is treading a dangerous line. 

They’ve done nothing wrong. It is neither a crime nor a sin to have a friend.  That the friend is Harry Potter is ironic or, perhaps, merely a lapse in judgement. But it’s not improper. 

Still, there is something lurking around the edges, something that clouds Severus’s head while he lies in bed at night. Nothing’s been said, but Severus has felt the implication there, hovering in the spaces in between. And he knows that, were to ask, he could have what’s on offer. 

He should feel guilty. Draco is good for him. Severus knows this. That he would even consider that he might want something else...something else with Potter is enough to send coldness seeping into his veins. He’s not the kind of man that would throw everything away for a bit of excitement, a bit of... Severus isn’t even sure. 

After a moment, Potter answers. “Oh, hey!” Severus thinks his face brightens when he sees him. “Sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone. Do you want to come through?”

“Yes.” Severus feels the wards fall away and he steps into the flames before emerging in Potter’s den. 

Potter is sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, papers spread out in front of him. The man smiles broadly. “Hey.” 

Something warm curls in Severus’s belly. He ignores it. “I thought we could eat.” 

“Yeah?” Potter smiles again. “Yeah.” He looks down at the work surrounding him. “Let me just…” He starts collecting the papers, slipping them into file jackets. “Can I offer you a drink? I have beer.”

Severus nods. “That would be great.”

Potter waves a hand. A second later, two bottles soar into the room, landing neatly on the coffee table. “Heineken okay?”

“Yes.” Severus refuses to be impressed by Potter’s effortless displays of wandless, wordless magic. He sits down on the sofa to drink his beer while Potter finishes whatever he’s working on. Then the man gets to his feet and excuses himself from the room. 

He reemerges a few minutes later dressed in dark jeans and a pale blue jumper. It does not have Harry’s name or any dragons or golden snitches stitched on the front. “The pub sound all right? I could kill for some fish and chips.”

Duke of Kendal is a few blocks away. The night is foggy; bits of moisture hang in the air, cling to Severus’s hair, his skin. Severus is distinctly aware of Potter beside him. He feels the warmth of his body but is careful not to let their arms brush as they walk side-by-side down the narrow street. 

The pub is crowded at that hour. They snag the last available table near the back. There’s live music. A man with an acoustic guitar is playing some overly soulful ballad. Severus must grimace because Potter laughs. “Don’t worry. He’ll go on break in a few. What do you want to drink?” He takes the menu from the centre of the table. “Beer? Or they have whisky.”

Their waiter appears, a tall kid, dressed in jeans and a dark flannel shirt. He smiles broadly at Potter. “Harry, mate, haven’t seen you about in a while. How’ve you been?”

“Hey, Glen,” he says. “I’ve been good. Just busy, you know?”

“’Course. What can I get you? Cider?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Severus?” Potter looks across the table at him. Severus realizes this is the first time the man has used his given name. He orders a pint of Newcastle, and the waiter retreats back to the bar for their drinks.

“You come here often?” he asks. 

“Not really, no. Ron and I grab a pint at The Leaky once a week after work, but I don’t go out much. Don’t have time.”

Severus understands. Potter is Head Auror; the job keeps him busy. And though he once assumed the man must have a bevy of young women (or men) following him about at all times, he knows now that’s not the case. The man is quiet. Contrary to Severus’s previous beliefs, he shies away from public attention. He prefers the anonymity that Muggle London provides, over his assured notoriety in Wizarding society. “And here I thought you’d have dates lined up for weeks upon weeks.”

“No,” Potter laughs softly. “You’re pretty much it. Unless you count Hermione. We have lunch together on Tuesdays.”

Glen reappears with their drinks, and Potter orders a plate of fish and chips. Severus asks for the same.

“What’s Draco up to tonight?” Potter asks once Glen’s gone to put in their orders.

“In Wiltshire for the weekend with his son.”

“Ah,” he says. “Narcissa still lives in that old house?”

“Yes. She’s got much of it closed off now with Lucius away. But even after everything, I don’t think she has plans to give the Manor up.”

Potter shudders. “Man, I hate that place. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.”

Severus knows that during the war Potter was captured and taken to Malfoy Manor. He also knows that Potter escaped, in typical Boy Wonder fashion. But he doesn’t know details. He had his own share of problems to worry about then. Thankfully, he hadn’t been privy to all of Lucius’s many concerns, as well.

Their food arrives. Potter douses his chips with vinegar before shoving two into his mouth. “Oh, they’re hot.” He winces, but eats another one. 

Severus picks at his fish. It flakes apart beneath his fingers; the wax paper beneath it is stained with grease. 

“Did you not want to go with them, to Wiltshire?” Potter asks after a moment. “I thought you were fond of Scorpius.”

“Very much,” Severus says. “This weekend, though, my company was not requested.”

“Worked out well for me, at least,” Potter says, spearing a piece of fish with his fork. Severus watches his mouth, his throat, as he swallows.

The guitar player finally decides to take a break; the resulting silence is blissful. Severus eats quickly. He’s hungry and the food is good. He’s no longer surprised by how much he enjoys Potter’s company. The man eats as though he’s starving. Severus smiles at the look of pleasure on his face as he sucks salt off his fingers. 

Glen brings them another round before they can ask. Severus has already had too much, but the beer is cold and the alcohol warms his stomach. He takes a long swallow and looks at Potter. 

“I like that, you know.”

“What?”

“The way you look when you’re happy. I’m not sure I’ve seen you smile so much.”

“I’m most certainly not smiling,” Severus says, but Potter only laughs. 

“Yes you are.” Potter reaches across, takes the last chip from Severus’s plate. “And it looks good on you.”

Severus isn’t sure how to respond so he sips at his drink instead.

Potter’s watching him, his gaze fixed, unnerving. “If things were different, I’d ask you to come home with me.”  
   
“If things were different, I might say yes.”

*** 

That night, Severus doesn’t sleep. He lies in the bed he’s shared with Draco for nearly two years and lets his mind wander. 

He thinks about the war and all the things he lost. 

He thinks about the things he, miraculously, didn’t lose. 

He thinks about the days, weeks, and months after the trail that he spent holed up in his rooms beneath the castle refusing all company except Minerva. After all, she’d allowed him to return. She’d welcomed him back to Hogwarts with metaphorical open arms and demanded nothing of him. No apology or explanations. No pledge to help with reconstruction or commitment to resume his old post—though he had done so come September when students returned. 

And he thinks about Draco. Draco who, alone from his class of Slytherins, had returned to finish his seventh year properly. Who, when out from the watchful shadow of Lucius and the Dark Lord, was soft-spoken and humbled. Who spent every moment of his spare time—that he wasn’t haunting Severus’s sitting room—in the library, revising first for his NEWTs and then for his Mediwizard entrance exams. Draco who, somehow, quietly and determinedly, worked his way into Severus’s heart. 

It hadn’t happened instantly. No. It had taken nearly five years for Severus to even consider the possibility, and then another two after that for him to act on it. But it had happened. And now, when Severus allows himself to think about the few times in his life he’s been truly happy, he’s only a bit surprised that so many of them are with Draco. 

He does not think about Potter. But he does wonder at how foolish he must be to throw everything he has away. 

***

On Sunday, Severus finishes up all of his outstanding potions orders. When he’s done, he washes his ladles, his knives. He scours his cauldrons and carefully returns all his dry ingredients to their proper places. Then he scrubs every surface of his lab until his work surfaces, the stone floor, the cabinets and shelves are spotless. 

Afterwards, he makes a fresh pot of tea and sits at the kitchen table thinking about what he’s about to do. 

***

Draco and Scorpius return at lunchtime. Severus makes grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and, together, they sit and eat. Scorpius prattles on and on about the Crup Narcissa keeps and how maybe, just maybe his mother will finally allow him a pet. Draco _hmms_ a response absently and Severus laughs. 

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” he tells the boy. It will be a cold day in hell, Severus thinks, before Astoria allows Scorpius anything more than, perhaps, a Pygmy Puff. “Abelard, however,” he says, referring to one of the three owls he has for deliveries, “has been less inclined of late to deliver my orders in a timely fashion. Maybe it’s time he retired. And, if your father approves, he could be your owl to tend to when you visit.” 

Scorpius beams at Severus and then looks eagerly to Draco. “Can I father? Can I? I’ll take good care of him, you know I will.” 

“We’ll talk about it this evening before your mother arrives,” Draco says noncommittally. Judging by the man’s smile, though, Severus thinks he’s already agreed. “Now, run along and play for a bit while I talk to Severus.” 

Scorpius bounds out of the kitchen. A few moments later Severus hears his footsteps on the stairs as he heads up to his room. 

“You’d do, that?” Draco asks once the boy is out of earshot. “Give Abelard to Scorpius?”

Severus nods. “The child loves animals. He’ll be good to him.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” Draco agrees, “but that owl has always been your favourite.” 

“True. But what good is a delivery owl who has decided he no longer desires to make deliveries? Besides, it’s not like I’ll never see him again.” He smiles. “I’m sure Scorpius could be persuaded to agree to some sort of visitation.” 

Draco laughs and stands to clear the table. He sets their dishes in the sink and turns the water on, his back turned to Severus. 

“I saw Potter this weekend.” 

Draco stiffens slightly. “Oh?”

“Yes, Friday night.” 

Draco shuts off the tap, turns round to face Severus. His expression is perfectly, carefully blank. “Did you...did he stay here?”

Something clenches painfully in Severus’s chest. That Draco would even think he could do something like that is enough to make Severus feel ill. “No, no. It wasn’t like that.” Draco relaxes slightly but does not move from where he’s standing by the sink, his arms folded across his chest. “Draco,” Severus says softly, “you have to know I would never do that to you.” He wants to add that he would never hurt him, but he worries that might have already done so.  “We had dinner, drinks. That’s all.”  

Draco sits down heavily in the chair beside him. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “You know,” he says, voice soft, “after everything—after the war was over and after those ghastly trials,” he shudders, “I thought for certain you’d end up with him.” 

“Whatever do you mean?” Severus feigns ignorance but can’t ignore the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “I didn't even know he preferred men.” 

Draco laughs but there's sadness there.  “Doesn’t matter. There was something there, or, there could have been, even if you didn’t recognise it. I saw it. And it wasn’t just me. Everyone did, really. Pansy and Blaise even had a bet.” He shakes his head.  “Lost a bit of money on that one.” 

Severus sits perfectly still. Forces himself to keep his expression blank, his hands steady. Yet, inside it feels as though something is about to crack. 

“Worked out well for me though,” Draco says. “And we’ve had a good run, haven’t we?” Severus can’t ignore the implication there. _Had._ And though he knew it had come to this, it still hurts.

Draco smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Severus wants to reach out, wants to tell him it’s not true, that he has never, will never want anything from Potter. But he knows it would be a lie and he won’t lie to this man. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he can finally manage. 

“Don’t be.” Draco places a hand on top of his, slides his thumb along Severus’s knuckle. “Don’t be sorry for doing what you need to do to be happy.” 

***

From Kensington, Severus Apparates to Diagon Alley and walks to Gringotts. Once inside his vault, he takes several books from his duffel and sets them on the shelf beside the few family heirlooms he’d taken from his father’s house.  The old, silver pocket watch. The string of pearls his father had given to his mother on their wedding day. A brooch and ring that had belonged to his maternal grandmother. 

He puts several Galleons in his pocket and then counts out a quantity of paper bills. He’s always kept Muggle money. Unlike many wizards, he understands the value of it. During the war, Severus took to keeping a supply on hand just in case he needed to disappear, and he’s never found reason to stop the practise. 

He leaves Gringotts and Apparates to Westminster.  When he was eleven, his mother took him to tea at The Savoy before he boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. He vividly recalls sitting in a straight-backed chair in his ill-fitting Muggle clothes, sipping tea from a delicate china cup. There’d been biscuits too: Chocolate with cream and shortbread ones dolloped with raspberry jam. His mother had let him eat the entire plate. He sighs. Eileen Prince Snape has been dead for nearly twenty years, but Severus still misses her every day. 

The lobby looks exactly as he remembers.  The vast chandelier hung high overhead casts intricate shadows on the marble floor, its black and white tiles polished to a sheen.  Fresh cut flowers spill from crystal vases, their pink and purple blooms adding splashes of colour to the grand room. 

The man behind the front desk raises an eyebrow when Severus takes the roll of £50 notes from his pocket, but he says nothing as Severus counts out the amount for a week’s stay.  This is an unnecessary indulgence. Severus could take a room in Diagon Alley for a fraction of the cost, but he has no desire to stay in Wizarding London. 

The porter frowns when he takes Severus’s bags from him—no doubt confused by their weight. Perhaps Severus should have adjusted the featherweight charm, but it’s too late now. He follows the man onto the lifts and watches as he presses the key for the sixth floor. 

A bell chimes their stop and the doors open again. Severus follows the porter down the long carpeted hallway. 

“Have you stayed with us before, sir,” the man asks, opening the door to a well-furnished room. 

“No.” 

“Well, I’m certain you’ll enjoy your stay. My name is Anthony if there is anything I can do for you while you’re here.” The man sets Severus’s duffels down and points out the room’s amenities. “Can I get you anything else? Newspaper, ice?”

“No.” Severus takes a fiver from his pocket and hands it to him. Anthony thanks him, tipping his hat smartly before turning to leave the room. 

Severus sits down on the bed.  He stares down at the two bags on the floor. Together, they hold all his worldly belongings, save his books and potions supplies. 

Aside from the few books of his mother’s that he secured at Gringotts that afternoon, he left the contents of his library at Draco’s townhouse. _“Your laboratory things too,”_ Draco had said, placing a hand on his shoulder as he watched Severus pack. _“You can’t use the shrinking spells on any of it.”_  

 _“No, I can’t.”_  

 _“You can come back, you know. To use your lab if you have orders to fill. Just until you find a place,”_ he’d added quickly. Severus was beyond appreciative. It was more than he deserved, and he told Draco so. But he had no outstanding orders and he could afford to take a bit of a break from potions making. 

He stands and opens the mini-bar, selects the whisky from the shelf. He drinks straight from the small bottle.  Then he tosses it in the bin and turns on the spot, Apparating to Edgware Road. 

Potter answers on the third knock. He’s dressed in loose khaki pants and a faded Manchester United t-shirt. There’s a hole at the neckline.  Severus sees a flash of pale skin. 

“Hey,” the man says. Severus could look at that smile for days. 

“I ended things with Draco.” Severus’s throat is tight. He’s surprised his mouth forms the words. 

“Oh...” Severus can’t read Potter's expression. He feels unmoored, adrift. “Oh, okay... We should eat. Should we go somewhere or order in?”

“Let’s eat in.” 

Potter nods and together they go inside. Severus waits on the sofa while he orders Chinese delivery on a mobile phone. 

He sets the phone down on the coffee table and sits beside Severus. “Drink?” he asks. “Beer? Or something stronger?”

“Stronger.” 

Potter nods. “Figured.” He stands and disappears into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with two glasses and a bottle of firewhisky.  “I only have Ogden’s.” 

“It’s fine.” They sit side-by-side and sip at their drinks. The whisky burns Severus’s throat, his stomach as he swallows, but he doesn’t care. He needs this. It feels good. 

Severus’s glass is nearly empty when the food arrives. Potter jumps up to open the door, pay the delivery boy. They eat shrimp phad Thai and vegetable fried rice out of white paper containers. 

Potter is nervous. Severus can tell from the straight line of his spine, the way his fingers fiddle with the paper napkin in his hands. He doesn’t know what to say, so he refills his glass of firewhisky and takes a long drink. 

“Are you okay?” Potter says, after what seems like a long while. 

“Yes.” Severus looks at him. Behind his glasses, Potter’s eyes are so green. There’s a thumb print smudge on one lens. “I think so.” 

“Good.” 

After dinner, Potter turns on the telly. Arsenal is playing Middlesbrough. They watch as the midfielder passes the ball up to a forward. His shot on the goal sails wide right.  Severus pours more whisky into his glass and then into Potter’s. He’s already had too much; his head feels pleasantly muddled. 

Potter changes the channel to a nature show; brightly coloured birds puff out their chests and fluff their feathers as they parade themselves in front of a solitary female. Each squawks and twirls in turn, hoping to be the one to catch her eye. 

Severus is acutely aware of Potter beside him. The man’s magic hangs in the air like electricity. It thrums beneath Potter’s skin, and crackles in the space between them. He wants to reach out and touch him, but he’s not sure he can. 

But then Potter leans towards him. The kiss isn’t more than a chaste brush of lips, but it leaves him breathless. Potter pulls back and smiles. His lips are very pink. “I’ve wanted to do that for weeks now.” 

“I...I know.”  

“Where are you staying?” Potter leans back, rests his head against the sofa cushion. 

“The Savoy.” 

“Oh, it’s nice there.” 

Severus wants to kiss him again. Wants to thread his fingers through his hair and breathe him in. “Yes. Have you been there?”

“One time, for Sunday brunch with Ron, Hermione, and their kids. I’m Rose and Hugo’s godfather, you know.” He smiles proudly. 

“Would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow? We can eat in the bar.” 

“Yeah, that would be—actually,” Potter frowns, “I’m not sure. We’re in the middle of a case and I might have to be in the field tomorrow. It could be a late night.” 

Severus tries not to show his disappointment. “No matter. You can let me know tomorrow if you have time.” 

“Okay.” 

This time, when they kiss, Potter opens his mouth to trace his tongue along Severus’s lips.  

Severus Apparates directly back to his room at the hotel. He thinks he can still feel the press of Potter’s lips, the warmth of his skin. 

That night, for the first time as he lies in bed, Severus allows himself to think of Potter. He wants to know what the man would look like naked and aroused. He wants him in his bed, spread out beneath him. 

And, as he touches himself, hand moving in short, quick strokes, he imagines Potter in his own bed doing the same. The thought makes Severus gasp. He comes too quickly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. Afterwards he stands, shaky and out of focus, and walks to the adjoining bathroom to clean up. He couldn’t do magic now if he tried.  

Then he lies down again and stares at the shadows playing across the ceiling. He listens to the sounds from the street six floors below. The honk of a horn. Shouts from the people spilling out of the pubs. The blare of music from an open car window as it drives past. It’s a long time before Severus falls asleep. 

***

The next morning, he stays in bed until half ten. Then he sits at the small table by the window, drinks two cups of tea, and reads _The Financial Times_ from cover to cover. 

It’s past lunchtime when he hears from Potter. It’s almost a disaster. Housekeeping has just arrived when Potter’s Patronus appears. Luckily, the maid is tidying the bathroom and doesn’t see the stag materialise by the bureau to deliver its message. Potter is working late as expected; their dinner will have to wait. Fortunately, Severus is able to shoo the creature away before it’s seen. It stomps its foot irritably and looks more than a little disappointed when Severus stops him from making a tour of the room, but he can’t concern himself with the feelings of Potter’s magical messaging service.  

It’s far too early in his stay to start Obliviating the hotel staff. 

That evening, he orders room service, drinks two beers from the mini-bar, and watches some old, black and white movie on the telly. 

Though Severus tries not to think of Potter, he fails miserably. 

***

The following day, Potter’s stag appears while Severus is still sitting at the breakfast table. Sure, it’s nearly noon, but Severus fancies himself on vacation and he sees no reason to get an early start when he has nothing pressing to do. 

Thankfully, the room is devoid of any housekeeping staff when the stag barrels through the door leaving an iridescent plume of smoke in its wake.  Severus rolls his eyes at how pleased the animal looks with himself. “Yes, yes,” he says to it, “you’ve found me again.” 

***

That evening, Severus heads downstairs early. He sits at the end of the bar and orders a glass of whisky, neat. He’s nervous, though he doesn’t think he has any reason to be. The bar is crowded. The piano player is playing Gershwin; the familiar tones of _Rhapsody in Blue_ fill the room. A young couple leans against the piano. The girl laughs, tossing her head back as her partner whispers something in her ear. Men and women fill the small tables, drinking champagne and fancy cocktails. Waiters dressed in coats and ties serve platters of oysters and boiled shrimp on ice. An older woman sits four seats down from him, stirring her martini with an olive skewer, and a pretentious looking young man in an expensive suit complains loudly about the bar’s cognac selection. Severus sips his drink and ignores the fact his hands are shaking.

Potter appears a few minutes later. He’s flushed and out of breath; his pale skin pinked with heat. “Did you run here?” Severus inquires dryly, pulling the bar seat out beside him. Potter sits down. He’s dressed in navy wool trousers; the sleeves of his white button shirt are rolled to his elbows. 

“Sort of,” he admits. At Severus’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates. “My Apparition coordinates might have been a few, er, six blocks off. Rather than risk overshooting the place again, I figured it’d be faster just to walk.”

“Says the man who regularly Apparates to the continent without breaking a sweat, international Apparation laws be damned.” 

Potter looks a bit sheepish. “Yes, well, on those jumps I typically have Ron check my coordinates first. He’s got a better head for that type of thing. My magic can get me there but accuracy has never been my strong suit.”

Severus laughs. The man is charming, even if unintentionally so. Severus is drawn to him in a way he can’t remember being drawn to anyone before...even Draco. He picks up his drink but finds it empty. Luckily, the bartender is there. 

“What would you like?” the man asks Potter. 

“Whatever he’s having.” 

The bartender looks at Severus. He nods. “Another, please. And menus.”

Potter orders the burger, Severus the tomato salad and chowder. 

Their food arrives. Potter cuts his burger in half; juice spills over his plate. The piano player starts a new set. Jazz melodies float above the din of the crowd. 

“So, you caught a break in your case?” Severus asks after a moment. 

“Yeah.” Potter dabs sauce off his mouth with his napkin. “One of our sources in Knockturn Alley actually had some legitimate information for once.” 

“Imagine that.” 

Potter laughs. “I know. I’ll admit that one of the rare perks of my _prestigious position_ —” he says the words with a roll of his eyes and a healthy lacing of sarcasm— “is that I no longer have to spend endless hours running down nebulous leads in Knockturn. I can delegate.”

Severus takes a bite of his soup; the chowder is hot and creamy. “You are good at what you do.” 

He shrugs. “I do my best.” 

“And you enjoy it? You are happy?”

“Well enough.” He dips a chip in some of the red sauce smeared on his plate and sticks it in his mouth. “I’m good at it. And I do like helping people.” He holds up his fingers, making quotation marks in the air. “Catching the bad guys. Making the world a safer place, and all that rot. But I’m not sure I’ve really been happy, not until recently, at least.” He looks at Severus then, and the sheer openness of his expression is nearly enough to undo him.

Severus reaches out tentatively, traces the curve of Potter’s knuckle with his thumb. 

“After the war,” Potter says, looking down at where Severus’s hand is still touching his, “I didn’t think I could do it. I didn’t think I could join the corps. I’d seen enough death, fought enough dark wizards to last a lifetime.” He takes the pickle spear from his plate, breaks it apart with a crunch. “I travelled some, you know. After the trials. But when I came home, I realised that becoming an Auror was what I needed to do. It’s not necessarily the path I would have chosen, but it’s my path, and that’s okay.” 

Severus scrapes the last bit of soup out of his bowl. He’s not sure what Potter wants him to say, why he’s telling him these things. “Potter, I...”

“Harry,” he says, cutting Severus off, “you should call me Harry.” 

“Harry...” Severus repeats. The word feels foreign and heavy on his tongue. 

“I’m not used to this, you know,” Potter—Harry says over the lip of his glass. 

“To what?” Severus asks carefully.

“Relationships.”  He sips at his whisky.  “I mean, I’ve been with men before.”

Severus doesn’t ask; it’s not his business to know, but Harry tells him anyway. 

“Three, to be precise. But I’ve never been in a real relationship...that is,” he adds quickly, “if you’d like that with me.”  
   
“I…I would.” It’s all he can do to make his mouth form the words. He does not look at Harry. Rather, Severus cuts his tomato into thin strips, pleased his hand doesn't shake while he does so. 

“All right then.” 

Severus sees Harry smile out of the corner of his eye.  He pops a ball of mozzarella into his mouth. 

“For the longest time I thought I was crazy for wanting you.”  
   
Severus doesn’t say anything. Rather than finding the comment upsetting, he understands. For many reasons, it’s absurd that they would find themselves together. 

“But when I couldn’t ignore it anymore,” he continues, “I realised why we made sense.” He sets his glass down again. “I mean no one else could possibly understand what we went through.” He turns in his chair, faces Severus. In the dark of the room his green eyes look nearly black. The candlelight on the bar flickers off his glasses. “We died, Severus. We both died at the hands of a wizard we’d spent the better part of our lives trying desperately to defeat.” Harry laughs, a dark humourless laugh. “Well, that and hoping not to die in the process. Which we both failed at miserably, I might add. Even if it turned out all right in the end.” 

Severus’s drink is empty. He signals to the bartender for another; the man takes the bottle of whisky from the glass shelf behind the bar. Draco and Severus did not talk about the war much, but it was always there hovering in the spaces in between them. The choices they’d made. The things they’d done. The things they’d seen. And the things they’d lost. But though they shared a mark on their arms and an unfortunate allegiance to a mad man, their experiences were as dissimilar as night and day. 

Severus and Harry, however, have always been more alike than either of them would have ever admitted. Severus drains his whisky in one swallow and pulls several notes from his pocket and leaves them on the bar. “Would you like to go upstairs with me?”

Harry swallows thickly. “I...yes.” 

Harry follows as they wind their way through the maze of tables and out of the bar. The tension in the lift is palpable and Severus can feel the thrum of the other man’s magic. He’s not sure it’s something he’ll ever get used to. 

Severus fumbles with the key card, but manages to get the door open on his second try. They’re barely inside when Harry is against him, pressing him back against the now closed door. He kisses as though he’s drowning, all tongue and teeth and gasped breaths. Severus clutches at Harry’s shoulders; the fabric of his shirt is rough under his fingers. Harry cups his face in his hands and traces a thumb along Severus’s jaw. Then he slips a hand between them, reaches down to press his palm between Severus’s legs. Severus does not realise how hard he is until Harry’s fingers are on him, feeling his size and shape beneath the fabric of his trousers. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispers, mouth against Severus’s throat. Teeth scrape the skin there and Severus gasps, pushes his hips forward.  He’s stroking Severus faster now, and suddenly Severus knows he’s going to come. 

“Stop, Potter—Harry, please,” he says, reaching between them to still Harry’s hand.

“What? Why?” Harry asks, pulling back slightly to look at Severus. His pupils are blown, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “Do you not like it?”

Severus wants to laugh. Surely it’s obviously just how much he’s enjoying this. “I do. Too much,” he manages, “and I’d rather not come in my trousers before we’ve even made it to the bed.”

“Oh, okay.” Harry kisses him again and takes his hand, leads him towards the bedroom.

The lights are off, but moonlight streams through the windows illuminating the room in a pale glow. Severus unbuttons Harry’s shirt with shaking fingers, slips it off his shoulders. The man’s throat, his chest are stained pink like his cheeks. His own shirt joins Harry’s on the floor while Harry fumbles with Severus’s belt, slides his trousers down his legs. 

Harry pushes Severus back until his thighs hit the bed and he sits down, watches as Harry undoes his own belt, tugs his slacks down. 

Together they lie down. Harry straddles him; his prick is damp and hard against Severus’s thigh, and he groans, leaning down to suck at Severus’s collarbone. The man’s skin is too pale, too smooth beneath his hands as he curls his fingers around his biceps, skates a palm down his spine. 

Harry moves against him and their cocks slide together. Severus can’t help but cry out. He won’t last long. He slides his hands down Harry’s back to curl round his hips, pull him closer to him, rock him faster against him. 

Severus never would have imagined the words spilling out of Harry’s mouth, but each one melts against his skin like hot wax, arouses him even more as their hips, their cocks slide together. 

He moves a hand over the curve of Harry’s arse, slips a finger down his crease. 

The man gasps and tenses, and Severus feels his come spilling hot and wet between them. “ _Fuck…_ ” Harry exhales, a warm gust of breath on Severus’s skin. Then he reaches down between them and wraps his fingers around Severus’s prick, smears his come along the length of him, and strokes him until he’s shaking and coming into Harry’s palm. 

Harry relaxes then, warm and languid on top of Severus. He can feel the man’s heart pounding against his chest. Severus traces a line along his ribcage with a fingertip. 

“I never meant to break you and Draco up,” Harry says after a long while. 

“You didn’t,” Severus assures. 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

Severus doesn’t say anything for a moment. He thinks, perhaps, his relationship with Draco was headed towards its end before Harry appeared in his Floo that first day asking for help. But he can’t say for certain that he would have broken things off had it not been for Potter.  “Draco and I weren’t happy. Hadn’t been happy for a while.”

Harry frowns. Severus feels his body tense beside him. “But I—”

“No.” Severus cuts him off, takes his hand in his, and curls fingers around his. You didn’t do anything.” 

***

Severus wakes to sunlight streaming through the window and Harry’s hand between his legs, stroking him to hardness. “Fuck,” he breathes and Harry laughs. 

“You like that, huh?”

“Obviously,” he groans, shifting towards Harry, arching up into his grasp.  

“I want to suck you off,” Harry whispers. “Let you fuck me.” 

“Yes,” Severus says. “Don’t stop.”  
   
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, to know what it feels like to fuck me.”  
   
The words are enough to send pleasure building, coiling around his spine. He comes with a gasp and then Harry is up on his knees, tugging at his own cock. Severus watches the pink curve of cockhead slip through thumb and forefinger. He strokes faster, eyes closed, head thrown back, and cries out, spunk shooting through his fingers to splatter against Severus’s chest. 

Later, they lie curled together. Severus threads his fingers through Harry’s hair, watches the sunlight play on his pale skin.

“It’s nice here,” Harry says, snuggling closer against Severus’s side. 

“The room’s only paid through this week. Afterwards, I’m afraid I’ll have to find more permanent lodgings.”  
   
“Oh,” Harry says, slipping a leg over Severus’s, “that’s good, but that not what I meant. I meant it’s nice here with you.” 

Harry falls back asleep then, lips parted, snoring softly.

Severus knows Harry could hurt him. Or his reputation, if he’d even call it that. But Severus does have something to lose now. And Harry is more than simply the Boy Hero. Apart from the Minister, he’s arguably the most powerful man in Wizarding London. But now, lying in bed next to Harry Potter, the man who saved them all, he finds he doesn’t care about any of that, and he realises that he wants nothing more than to go to sleep and wake up beside this man for as long as Harry will let him. 

Severus lets Harry sleep for a little while. He brushes his teeth and dresses, pulling one of the hotel's robes over pants and undershirt. Then he orders room service and wakes Harry up to tea and croissants. They eat side-by-side in bed.  Crumbs scatter on the coverlet as Harry picks his pastry apart between his fingers, but before Severus can think to complain, Harry waves a hand, banishes the mess to Merlin knows where. “What are you going to do now?” Harry asks once they are done eating. 

Severus sets his teacup on the bedside table and leans back against the pillows. Harry’s sitting cross-legged, naked beside him.  “What do you mean?”

“When you leave here? Do you know where you want to live?”

Severus shakes his head. “I haven’t thought much about it,” he admits honestly. “Away from Wizarding London, though. And I’ll need a place I can add onto with a bit of wizard’s space for my lab.” 

“I can help if you’d like,” Harry says, lying back, worming his way under Severus’s arm. “Finding your place, but then also with the wizard’s space. I’m good with that type of thing.” 

Severus doesn’t doubt it. The man seems to be good at everything. “That would be nice.” 

They lie there for a while, Harry a warm weight against Severus’s chest. He’s nearly asleep again when Harry presses his mouth to the curve of Severus’s throat, beneath his chin.  Then he feels Harry’s fingers run over the thin raised scars on Severus’s neck. They are smooth now and faded, but still starkly evident against his pale skin. “God, I was an arse then,” Harry whispers. “So convinced of your guilt. Of my own moral superiority. Part of me wanted you to die...thought you deserved it.” 

Severus catches Harry’s hand in his, his grip, perhaps too tight. But he doesn’t like this trip down memory lane, doesn’t like remembering that night, the cold darkness of the shack, Potter’s young, healing magic.  “Perhaps I did,” he says. His voice is harder than he means it to be. 

“No.” Harry’s eyes are wide and dark. He sounds remorseful, sad, and it makes Severus uncomfortable, but still, something like warmth creeps through his belly. “I was so wrong about you,” Harry continues, leaning in, tracing his tongue along puckered skin. Severus gasps, shivers as he licks a trail down the column of his throat. “There wasn’t enough dittany,” Harry says then softly. 

Severus catches the man’s face between his palms, forces Harry to look him in the eye. “There was. You saved my life.” 

Harry nods, one quick bob of his head, but then asks, voice unsure: “Are you glad I did? Glad I saved your life?”

Severus isn’t expecting the question; doesn’t know how to answer. But Harry continues on without waiting for a response. “Because, for a long time, I thought maybe I was wrong to come back. I had a choice, you know? That night after Voldemort killed me and I met Dumbledore at King’s Cross.”

Severus doesn’t know what he means. He has no way of knowing what happened after Harry was struck by the killing curse, what allowed Harry to return from the dead to defeat the Dark Lord once and for all.

“I made the choice to come back to kill him,” Harry continues. “Someone had to, and I think I was the only one who could have done it.”

Severus nods. “Most likely you were.”

“I know. It was the right thing to do, but that didn’t stop me from thinking that, maybe, it would have been better if I hadn’t come back. If I’d gone on to wherever that train was waiting to take me.”

Severus strokes Harry’s hair. He understands more acutely than perhaps Harry even knows. “You deserve to be happy,” he says slowly, carefully. “And, in choosing to live, you gave yourself that chance. You gave yourself the possibility of happiness.”

“Are you happy?” Harry whispers in response against his skin. His voice is so soft, so low, Severus can hardly make out the words. “You said you weren’t happy...before, with Draco. I want you to be happy now. I want you to be happy I saved your life. Happy you’re here with me now.”  
   
“I am.” He says the words without thinking, but as soon as they leave his lips he knows they’re the truth. 

There was a time when Severus did think he’d have been better off dying that night in that decrepit shack. He can’t count the times he wished that Harry hadn’t pulled that dittany from the Granger girl’s bag, hadn’t uttered the words that saved his life. And there was a time when he felt lost in a world that cared little for pardoned murderers and cantankerous ex-spies.

But he realises now that it’s been a long while since he’s felt any of those things. And, for once, he’s not worried about the things the Dark Lord, the war took from him, or if he’ll ever forgive himself for the things he was forced to do. He doesn’t even stop to think about how strange it is to be here, curled in a hotel bed with Harry Potter.  He only knows that he’s happy, _and isn’t that the most amazing thing?_

Severus tugs the man closer to him and presses a kiss against the top of his head. “I am,” he repeats the words again, certain he means it.

**Author's Note:**

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